Coming Of Age
by lightshire
Summary: Guided by Lord Elrond, Aravir travels with the Fellowship Of The Ring to avenge his father's tragic death and to fulfill a blessing bestowed upon him. Based on the books as well as the movies; this story has action, adventure, fun, sorrow, and love. R
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is a story about a young boy who joins the Fellowship in their valiant battle against the evil Sauron. Of course, this young boy does not exist in J.R.R Tolkien's beautifully written tale, Peter Jackson's marvelous interpretation, nor does he make even a single appearance in any of the video games. This boy comes from my imagination, as did this interpretation of the original tale. Don't give up on me just yet – this is still J.R.R Tolkien's story (told with much less professionalism and greatness, as I am not and will never be J.R.R Tolkien, haha) simply told from my imagination, which oddly likes to add characters to books and movies, if you haven't noticed already.**

**I greatly admire and respect J.R.R Tolkien and his work to create such a wonderful book series, and by no means do I have the right (or am trying) to twist his story in any way, though I will warn you that several changes will be made. None are terrible – no species will lose their traits, all Middle Earth locations and creatures will be honored as Mr. Tolkien wrote them to be. But alas, scenes will be added along with dialogue that never took place in Mr. Tolkien's writings. After all, it is a fan fiction, or else I would only be producing a copy of his masterpiece, right?**

**Please read and leave your reviews. I would love to hear your praises, thoughts, ideas, anticipations, disappointments and criticism. Most of all, I hope you enjoy the story.**

**All characters, locations, creatures, languages, and of course the grand story itself belong to J.R.R Tolkien. (RIP)**

* * *

Gilraen felt the bitter sting of tears welling up underneath her tired, blue-gray eyes and her heartbeat increasing in speed. One of her thin hands came up to her mouth to hold in a loud cry while the other held onto the parchment, on which was a message. It was addressed to her son.

_  
My dear Aravir,_

_honored was I to hold you in my arms on the day following your birth. During my short visit I joined your mother and all of Minas Tirith, and together we welcomed you into this world. Yet, in the midst of the joy you brought, we were forced to fall victim to grief and mourn the loss of your father, as you reminded us all of the great man he was. Although he never had the chance to lay eyes on you, he loved you very much. Before your birth he planned to bestow three precise blessings upon you, but as you know, he was killed before he had the chance. I was with him as he drew his final breaths, and he gave the three blessings to me, which I then spoke over you before my departure from Minas Tirith. The first of these are desired for you:_

_**-** To grow and play as all young children should, frolicking in the streets of your beautiful city, letting your imagination run as wild as an untamed horse in safety and without fear._

_**-** To mature into a strong young man, seeking justice and good moral as did your father; that he may look down at you and proudly declare that you are his son._

_I am told of how these blessings have been with you to this very day and am thankful. As I mentioned, the first of these are desired for you. However, the final is expected of you. It is as follows:_

_**-** To become a man of greatness and bravery, that which surpasses the greatness and bravery of his father. A man of love for this world, that which will lead him from one end to the other to defend the land and the people. A man who will stand as a soldier before the largest of armies and not falter in fear; who instead will rise up and fight to whatever end destiny has chosen._

_I promised your father that I, Lord Elrond, son of Eärendil and Elwing, would see this through to the very end. After eighteen years, the time has come. Therefore, I am summoning you to Rivendell. You are aware that a number of your fellow men have gone before you. Do not try to catch up with them for you are set apart, and as such, will arrive when the time is right._

_My prayers are with you and your travels, and I trust your wisdom to guide you on safe paths. Make haste, dear boy._

_Signed,_

_Lord Elrond of Rivendell_

* * *

Aravir stood outside of his home, a lose fist gently pressed against his full lips, his thick blonde hair blowing in the wind, and his stormy blue eyes locked on the fiery sky above Mordor. His very soul felt heavier as the dark clouds spread. Each and every day the clouds were thicker, the thunder was louder, the fires burned brighter, and the feeling of evil was more prominent. The activity in Mordor had the women of Minas Tirith bearing fear in their hearts, the men walking with caution, and the children asking questions – questions which their parents most often had not the heart to answer truthfully. Aravir could only wonder how Osgiliath was holding up for it was much closer to Mordor.

His gaze had just landed on the city when he heard the door creak open behind him. Aravir closed his eyes and held his breath in an attempt to prepare himself for the sight of his mother crying. He hated it. Every tear he had ever seen her cry felt like a knife being pressed into his heart. The poor woman had dealt with so much hardship in her life – so much grieving. Aravir remembered how her eyes were once a brilliant blue. Like blue sea hollies blooming in the late months of summer. But over the years she had mourned the loss of her husband so harshly and had shed so many tears that the color of her eyes had grown dim.

After a long moment of hesitation, Aravir opened his eyes and turned around. As he assumed, there was his dear mother standing in the doorway – eyes barely open, tears streaming down her aging cheeks, and lips frowning. Her appearance was like a kick to the stomach for the young man, who took a step forward, opened his arms, and then closed them around his mother's shoulders. He rested his chin on top of her head.

"Pray tell, why are you crying, Mother?" he asked, lightly stroking her back.

Gilraen did not respond with words, but with a loud wail which was muffled in his chest. Her hands balled into fists around the fabric of his clothing as if her hold would keep him there with her. Feeling this, Aravir held her tighter.

"Please talk to me." He pleaded, his soft voice beginning to tremble.

"Holding that parchment," she began, looking up to Aravir "reminded me of how it felt to hold the letter informing me of your father's death. You are not even a soldier and already you are being called away to what could be your own death."

Aravir forced a smirk and a chuckle. "Lord Elrond promised my father that he would watch over-"

"Lord Elrond invited your father to the battle he died in!" she shouted.

"But his death was not of Lord Elrond's making. He died by the sword of a savage, blood-thirsty orc, not by the Elven blade. Lord Elrond was by Father's side as his life slipped away, and surely you remember how genuinely broken his heart was while he was grieving with you. He is a caring soul and you hold a place in his heart. I don't think he will let your only child be taken from you."

"You say that and yet you allow yourself to be taken away to Rivendell, and from there only fate knows where you will go. I fear it won't be back into my arms." Gilraen paused and laid a hand on Aravir's right cheek. "Even when you were growing in my womb I feared this day would come."

* * *

Aravir readied his horse as the sun ascended from behind the mountains the next morning. He found himself moving more slowly with each passing minute; homesickness already setting in. With his fingers he gently brushed the steed's mane, thankful to have at least one companion from Minas Tirith making the journey with him. Just as Aravir was finishing, Gilraen stepped out of the house carrying one last sack of food, a container of water, and something else. She handed the food and the drink to the young man who thanked her for each individually.

But then she opened up her right hand, revealing a gold ring.

"This was the ring your father received when he married me." She said

She then slipped it into Aravir's hand, closing his fingers around it. "One of his fellow soldiers managed to return it. Promise you will bring it back to me, for I will die if ever it is lost."

Aravir brought the fist which held the ring up to his chest and nodded his head. "I promise to return this to you, and I will come back to Minas Tirith and we will be together again. I swear."

Gilraen's lower lip quivered. She took a moment to hold her son's face in her hands. Oh, how it seemed like just yesterday he was an infant; small enough to hold in her arms and too youthful to be called away. Now what he was 18 years old, she could hardly believe he was her own. It pained her to know that she would now miss seeing his growth and maturity.

His warm embrace enveloped her trembling body.

"I love you." He said, pulling her closer.

"I love you too."

Aravir mounted his steed, and after Gilraen waved her hand, gave his hips a thrust, and with that the horse started forward, eventually making its way down the long, winding roads of Minas Tirith. Once clear of the city gates, the brave horse started to gallop, officially beginning the 4 month journey to Rivendell.


	2. Into A Kingdom Of The Elves

Aravir rested on the ground of Dunland with his hands behind his head. The stars reflected off of his big, stormy blue eyes as he stared up into the night sky. Oh, how peaceful it was to hear the sounds of nature, rather than the ruckus coming from Mordor. He heard owls hooting and crickets chirping instead of thunder cracking and volcanoes erupting. Rather than the cries of evil creatures, Aravir heard the softness of the wind caressing the branches of nearby trees and touching ever blade of soft grass around him. It was perhaps the calmest of nights the boy had ever lived. And yet, Aravir felt more distraught, homesick, uneasy and impatient than ever before. He looked at the moon and thought of his mother and how terribly he missed her. His heart ached so painfully that it tempted him to turn around, abandoning Lord Elrond and going back home. Rivendell was barely a month away; Minas Tirith was at least three and yet it sounded much better. Aravir found himself growing angry – angry that he still had weeks to travel before reaching Rivendell. With a sigh, he looked over to where his stead stood, chewing on a bite of hay in a nearly humorously gawky fashion.

"After months of riding on your back, I feel as though the coming days will be twice as long – making one week as long as two, and the rest of this journey equally as long as what we have covered already." He paused and chuckled. "Poor you. You've been galloping for so long; I cannot imagine how you're feeling. Agitated with time? Well ready for this to be over?"

The horse opened its mouth, revealing its large teeth, and made a strange noise. To Aravir (who laughed out loud in response), it sounded like an Orc with a belly ache. Once his laughter ceased, Aravir's brow furrowed at his steed. "No horse should make that sound – it certainly won't impress the mares of the stable. I suppose you're not worrying about that. We should first find a stable, yes?"

Its snout was already turned away – its attention directed elsewhere. Aravir rolled over onto his side and tucked his arms underneath his head. He was restless in spirit, but his body was exhausted, and so he forced himself to fall into slumber, dreading the long day ahead.

* * *

Four months and five days after leaving Minas Tirith, Aravir rode through the gates of Rivendell. It was early in the morning, but still the foliage glowed in brilliant shades of orange and gold. Even the leaves on the stone ground were just as beautiful as those which were still hanging on the trees. The air was crisp and refreshing, and the scent of honey and rich spices flowed freely in the wind. Mouth agape, Aravir dismounted and stepped forward. All was silent with the exception of the leaves and branches moving in the breeze. Aravir could hear his own boots tapping on the stone below, which made him feel as though his presence was a disturbance to the blissful peace.

Yet in Rivendell's entire perfection-like demeanor, one thing was wrong . . .

There was no one in sight.

Aravir was so excited to see the Elves – the beings he had heard so many great and intriguing stories about as a child, that he was almost angered to see none. "Hello?" he called. But his own voice echoed back to him, much to his dismay. He walked slowly ahead until the gate was out of view and still there was not an Elf in sight. Or any person of any race for that matter. Had everyone gone off? Were the Elves hiding? Aravir wondered. "Hello?" he called out again. There was more silence . . . for a moment.

"HALT!" a voice screamed.

From behind the walls, shrubs, and every place there was to hind behind came an Elf warrior with their sharp eyes and arrows fixed on him. Aravir felt his heart skip a beat, and before he knew it his arms were bent upward at the elbows with hands wide open in a gesture of surrender.

"When the days were good," one of the Elves began, taking a step closer to the boy "visitors were welcome here in Rivendell as long as they were friendly and came in peace."

"But I do come in p-"

"Our gates do not receive as freely anymore. If you are uninvited, you are unwelcome."

"You need not worry, Master Elf." Aravir replied, holding his position but giving his head a slow nod. "My name is Aravir son of Araval, and I am from Gondor's capitol city of Minas Tirith. I am here as requested by Lord Elrond. For what business, I am unsure."

"Not easily will believe you. Speakers of truth are rare to come by in this age, but liars, spies, and harm doers are an everyday occurrence." The Elf pulled back on the string of his bow.

"Only Lord Elrond can prove that I am not lying and that I am not a spy." Aravir said, raising his voice a little. "But answer me this: would any harm doer come alone? If I wished to ambush your city and your citizens, surely I would have brought many men with me, yet I am alone with just a sword and a horse. Look around you. Do you see any snipers positioned on your rooftops? Do you hear swords being pulled from their scabbards? No, because-"

"I see and hear neither of these things you mentioned." a third voice interrupted. It was much deeper and more vibrant than the others.

An Elf dressed in fine clothes, finer than those which the Elven soldiers wore, and a crown upon his head walked down a small flight of stairs and passed his soldiers, meeting Aravir face to face. His face was long as was his hair, and his dark eyes stern, but a small smile had formed on his thin lips.

"Lord Elrond?" Aravir asked.

In response, he simply nodded his head. Aravir immediately bowed his head and went down on one knee, honored and awe-struck to be in the presence of an Elf lord. Suddenly (and for the first time since leaving his home city), Aravir felt that the journey was worth it.

"Your father never bowed down to me, and I don't require you to either. Rise, Aravir, son of my late friend, Araval. Walk with me."

The two walked together, but didn't utter a single word. Aravir's wide, childlike eyes scanned all of his surroundings, taking in every new sight they possibly could. Lord Elrond watched; a small smirk ever-present. Eighteen years he waited to lay eyes on the boy again, and here he was – tall, strong, and able-bodied, almost a smitten image of his father with the exception of a neatly kept beard. Elrond led him to a house and a room which looked to be nothing more than a study. On the west wall there was a table. On the table were different types of bread, crackers, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, and a jug of wine and another of water. There was also a variety of what looked to be spices, but Aravir was not certain, having never seen anything like them before. He could not even tell if they were edible.

"Refreshments?" Lord Elrond asked as he poured water into a silver cup. To his surprise, Aravir was silent. "What is it, my boy?"

"I don't mean to offend," Aravir began, his throat feeling dry with a sudden onset of nervousness. "but the hospitality here in Rivendell has me quite bewildered. First you welcome me with sharp arrows and feisty warriors, only to invite me into your home and offer me food and drink?"

Elrond chuckled. "You are our friend."

"And if I were a foe . . .?"

"Then you would be dead." Elrond replied, his smile fading. "Friends receive good treatment, as we must treat our friends with goodness if we hope to keep them in these dark times. However, our enemies receive death. They die before catching so much as a glimpse of a single loved one in their minds."

Aravir's stormy blue eyes grew wide, and his jaw hung open a little. He knew the Elves were tough creatures, who only the foolish even dared to oppose, but Elrond's voice and his way of wording it helped the message to hit home. The Elf offered the silver cup to Aravir and smiled again. "Refreshments?"

Aravir then took the cup from Lord Elrond and took a sip of the ice cold water. He was amazed. Even the beverages in Rivendell were more satisfying than any other he ever had, and just with one sip.

"I imagine after four months of journeying you are eager to sit down and savor a good meal. Make yourself a plate – don't be stingy, fill it to the very edges if you wish, and then come meet me in the next room. I will gladly explain my reason for summoning you."


End file.
